


Good Man

by superagentwolf



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, BBC Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the most brilliant soldier the Jaeger program's ever seen- but he's the most difficult to partner with a co-pilot. In a last-ditch attempt to keep his most prized fighter, Lestrade hunts down John Watson in hopes that a broken soul is just what Sherlock needs. What follows could either be the most disastrous drift ever attempted...or the beginning of an unbreakable alliance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> So here's something a little different, inspired by my love for the Jaeger co-pilots concept, tumblr, and johnwatupson. Enjoy!

Sherlock stares at the sickly, green letters floating on the screen in his hands.

_Unfit for combat._

The alarm-clock digital font makes him want to punch something, and he's not a violent person at all.

_Unable to drift with co-pilot._

These words have nothing to do with Sherlock. "Unfit" and "Unable" have never been used to describe him.

Until now.

The first of his training years passed in a haze. Commendations, record-breaking scores, the fastest graduation the program had ever seen- Sherlock took the academy by storm. Sherlock was _built_ for combat- not in the muscle-bound way of most men, but in the way that assassins and conquerers were built. Sherlock was lithe movement, swift action, unparalleled stealth, deadly silence. Sherlock could analyze Kaiju, break down their very weaknesses, and complete a mission in unheard-of time.

He was too good.

Sherlock had never quite cared for human contact. The training and analyzing took up all of his life- every day was a blur, punctuated by battle plans and conditioning. It wasn't until Sherlock was standing on the mat, watching his fifth potential partner crash to the floor, that he realized just how much he _didn't care_ for other people. He'd spent so long immersing him self in the comlexities of the alien beings invading his planet that he'd completely neglected to build up any form of human contact, aside from Lestrade. Sherlock was shocked- were all humans this _simple_? Was he really so far ahead, so advanced that people didn't make him _think_ the same way kaiju made him think?

Lestrade brushed the first trials off as beginner's nerves. After all, Sherlock was so young, so far ahead- he hadn't developed, hadn't _matured_ enough to properly conncect with anyone. Sherlock shook himself, gathered his bamboo rod, and prepared for round two.

Things didn't get better.

Lestrade despaired that Sherlock could not find a co-pilot. He _knew_ firsthand just how cold and calculating Sherlock could be, and he _tried_ to find someone capable of handling the pilot's immense intellect, but nothing worked. People like Sherlock weren't _pilots_. People like Sherlock researched Kaiju, taking tissue samples, theorizing and postulating about the rift. Peope like Sherlock worked behind the scenes, on the ground. The realm of pilots was a rough one, filled with bullies and the bullied, with machine men and rugby boys and warriors. Pilots didn't have time for thinking, they _did_ things _._

In a moment of desperation, Lestrade had gone against his better judgement and tried to partner Sherlock up with a young martial arts prodigy. It had been a seemingly stable matchup, the cool genius with the stoic warrior. Yet when they tried to initiate a neural handshake, it had all gone to hell.

_"His mind is **populated** with rabbits," _ The young man had said, after there had been an emergency shutdown and Sherlock had disappeared to his room. _"It's like being inside a beehive. You **can't** relax, because even if you do, you'll relax only to see a rabbit run."_

So Sherlock was left behind for a year, and then two, and now- three years after graduating five years early- he was facing the same report he had since that first time on the black mat.

Another year he couldn't fight. Another year he watched his classmates die. Another year he had to watch barely-capable Jaeger pilots walk into the ocean, never to return.

He hated waiting. Hated not being able to share his mind. Hated the Kaiju that had dragged him into the Jaeger program, hated that he _had_ _to fight_.

It had been three years, and he was still waiting.


	2. Reconcile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is running out of options, excuses, and time. If he can't find a match for Sherlock within thirty days, his best pilot will be reassigned to lab duty. In a desperate moment, Lestrade calls in the aid of an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's some more set-up, but we're about to gain momentum here. Thank you so much for reading my work, and please do leave comments or message me with story ideas at tumblr! (supermagicdetectiveagentwolf-a)

There was blood in the sink.

A small, dark, red dot stained the white porcelain, glaring up at Lestrade mockingly.

_I'm too old for this._

Actually, he was sure that it was the exact opposite. He was too _young_ for this shit to be happening, and he was angry, but the anger took a backseat to his current problems.

Sherlock, for example.

Sherlock was one hell of a pilot, but he couldn't co-pilot _at all_. This wouldn't be an issue if piloting didn't drain you dry when you tried to do it by yourself. Lestrade was _not_ one to give up- he wasn't the stupidly optomistic kind, he simply did not accept that all he could do was lay in the road and wait for the bomb to drop. Giving up was never an option.

He swiped at the blood quickly, efficiently. His shirt was replaced by a starched replica in two minutes, tin of medicine transferred to his pocket. The suit jacket was last, straightened precisely with its crisp lines running down his chest.

It was time to go hunting.

 

* * *

 

The construction was not going well, Lestrade noted.

Men crawled like so many insects across the steel skeleton of a wall meant to keep back Kaiju. The thought was laughable, considering even a Level 1 monster could take down a building. The helicopter wavered slightly as it reached the dirty concrete outside the construction zone, choking dust and straggling workers scattering in the wind.

The men looked like so many of his own. There was a concrete hardness to their expressions, unyielding  and firm. Behind the stony mask were several emotions- fear, guilt, anger, resignation. These were the former pilot candidates, the disillusioned civilians, the regular men with extraodinary resilience. Men who had suffered the loss of a family, men who had not quite made the cut for becoming a pilot, men who had worked in offices before the Kaiju attacked.

And John.

John, Lestrade noticed, was almost the same as he'd been nearly five years ago. Shorter, strongly built, a kind sort of man you'd want to drink with but not piss off in the least. He was fairly above decent at combat, Lestrade knew. John was resilience made flesh- he could _withstand_ the ways that people thought the anti-Kaiju wall would. Yet beneath the muscle, John was smart. He would've been a doctor before the rift opened up, but then again, maybe not. John worked a little too much to stand sitting behind a desk or in an office.

"Long time," Lestrade said evenly, feet braced shoudler width apart, hands clasped before his waist. John, with his tired, blue-grey eyes, lifted his chin. The early lines of his face and the haunted quality of his gaze hadn't changed, Lestrade noticed.

"Commander."


	3. Recover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is approached by Lestrade five years after Gipsy Danger fell to a Level 3 Kaiju. When they reach Hong Kong, John can't help but take some interest in Sherlock- but who exactly is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to review my humble story! I'm incredibly happy that even a few people have taken an interest in this :) So without further ado, here is the final intro-y chapter of this story!

"Commander."

Lestrade looked a little more grey, a little more drawn- but John could see the same stony will in the man's dark eyes. _I know what he wants._

"Watson. We need to talk."

 

* * *

 

John leaned against a fallen pillar, arms crossed, as he gazed at his former Commander. Lestrade stood with rigid posture, watching John with an unwavering firmness.

"They're shutting us down within the year," Lestrade said, and his voice betrayed no hint of emotion- but John knew him well enough to know that inside, the Commander was probably furious. "The wall is meant to be...a more _rational_ course of action." John snorted.

"Right, and who's supposed to believe that?"

"We need you back," Lestrade said abruptly. John raised his eyes, keeping his expression impassive. _He expects me to just say yes. To just go back and-_

"I can't," John said evenly, but he knew he probably looked as haunted and broken as he felt. "I can't just- let someone else into my head, I can't."

Lestrade's eyes were steely as he listened, his mouth a tight line.

"Do you really think you're doin' anyone any good out here? Buildin' a wall made of rubble? Spare me the story, Watson. You and I both know that the Jaegers are the only thing standin' between _those people_ and certain death."

John ground his teeth, fighting the urge to yell back. The Commander didn't appreciate yelling.

"I can't do it," John repeated firmly, starting to walk away, breathing controlled. He could _feel_ the Commander's presence radiating behind him.

"The end _is_ comin'," Lestrade began to say loudly, and John paused. "So where would you rather die? Out here? Or in a Jaeger?"

 

* * *

 

_I can't believe- no, I can. I **can** believe he's roped me into this. After all...._

John felt the helicopter sway as it landed, the rain that had been ever-present slowing down ever so slightly. The base was flooded with people, some in uniform jumpers, others in team jackets. As he stepped onto the helipad, Sherlock saw a tall, slim figure in black, carrying an umbrella. Something shifted a little inside his chest, the feeling somewhat foreboding. The umbrella lifted.

Something about the man immediately struck John. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but somehow, he'd been surprised. The man had pale skin, almost untouched by the sun. His eyes were a striking, icy blue, contrasting with dark brown, almost-black hair. Something in the way he was staring at John gave the impression that he knew everything there was to know just by looking at him.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, and John could've sworn the man's voice contained a certain amount of well-disguised pride. "Foremost candidate this year."

"And every year before that for four years," Sherlock said smoothly, his deep voice echoing from his chest dangerously. Lestrade's jaw clenched warningly, and he turned to John, eyes alight with mild annoyance and amusement.

"Why don't you we get you acquainted with the base?"

John followed Lestrade into the hangar, turning when he heard the cries of a woman.

"Wait! Hold the door! Wait!"

A young woman darted in, her short, red hair haphazardly sticking up in a million different directions. She smiled brightly up at John, dumping a large duffel bag onto the floor.

"Thanks!" She said, glancing back at her companion, a woman with a decidedly unfriendly look about her and curly, brown hair. The redhead rolled up her shirtsleeves, and John noticed multicolored tattoos adorning them. Lestrade barely repressed a sigh beside him.

"John, meet the science division. Hooper specializes in Kaiju biology and behavior; Donovan works with more...technological, mathematical aspects."

"You can call me Molly," The woman said, still smiling, and she glanced behind John, suddenly appearing a bit nervous, cheeks flushing. _She's looking at Sherlock._ "This one's the Level 3," she rushed on, twisting a hand around one of her tattoed arms. "It was amazing, really, just this huge- thing- just coming out of nowhere, and the biology was _incredible_ -,"

 _She is **not** talking to me about that Kaiju,_ John thought in disbelief.

"You'll have to forgive her," Donovan interrupted, her tone condescending as she glared at Molly. "She's a Kaiju groupie-,"

"I'm not- a _groupie_ ," Molly protested, flustered, and John turned away, leaving them to their arguing. He glanced at Sherlock, expecting the man to have some sort of reaction. He was silent.

* * *

 

John left half of his concentration (significantly more than he needed) to Lestrade's tour of the base, letting the other half run rampant on the man following closely behind.

Sherlock Holmes was a puzzle. He didn't speak, but John had the feeling that he was unusually restrained. Something in Sherlock's icy eyes was racing, and the way he held himself was too cautious. _I wonder what he's **really** __like._ John didn't realize that Sherlock was looking back until it was too late. The man's lips quirked into an almost mocking smile, and he turned his head, the lights of the pilot deck glaring against his profile.

_Why does he look so magnificent?_

"I'm needed on deck. Holmes, show Watson to his quarters." Sherlock nodded curtly, watching the Commander as he left.

"So. Who are you, exactly?" John asked, following the tall man as he quickly began to walk down the hall.

"I have compiled a list of the most likely candidates for you," Sherlock said coolly, coming to a stop in front of a metal door. "You'll go through basic compatiblity tests tomorrow." He reached a hand out to John, long fingers grasping a folder. John looked down at it for a moment.

"I'll-check them out," John trailed off, looking up to see that Sherlock had disappeared.

_Right._

 

 

 


	4. Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is approached by an old friend whose son seems to bear a grudge against the former pilot. Meanwhile, Molly and Donovan go head to head and Lestrade must consider his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last chapter I'd written had been accidentally spliced with another, and when I hurriedly edited it, I noticed a character mistake! I'm correcting it now, so please forgive the error >_

John stared at the iron door.

_Knock.  No, don't knock. Knock- oh, for god's sake._

Without another thought, John moved to Sherlock's door.

"Hey!" A booming voice echoed down the hallway, and John turned, suddenly forgetting about his intentions.

"Stamford?" The man approaching John was slightly taller than John, but similarly built- strong, compact, and buzzing with energy.

"John! Good to see ya, mate!" When Stamford smiled, laugh lines spread across his tanned face. _Why did I ever leave?_ Here was a man John had been proud to fight with. A man his brother-

_No._

"He rope ya back in, eh," Stamford said, winking, clapping John's shoulder. "I told him good luck bringing ya back!"

"Figured building was never my area," John replied, grinning. Stamford was steering him towards the mess hall. "Hold up a minute- I'll be right there," John said, and Stamford gave him a last clap before heading to dinner.

John walked back to the iron door. _Here goes nothing._

Silence.

He knocked again.

"Sherlock? Are you in there?" The door stared back at John.

_Fine._

 

* * *

 

The mess hall was brimming with men, and John took a moment to feel completely lost among the throng. Stamford seemed to appear out of nowhere, balancing two trays with the expert precision that made him one of the best pilots in existence. They made their way to a table, and John took a moment to glance at the man already seated. He seemed to be brooding over something, and the bulldog at his feet watched John warily.

"This is my son," Stamford said, gesturing towards the man. _He looks nothing like him._ "It gets confusing with the same last names, so we've taken to calling him Anderson."

John chuckled, poking at his food. Anderson watched John with open disdain- it was unsettling.

"I must say, I'm surprised. Never took it you would come back," Anderson said, and John looked up, glancing at Stamford, who seemed to have expected this. "As far as I'm concerned, you don't deserve that Jaeger. Took off to _build a wall_ ," Anderson sneered. "You _left._ Pathetic."

John watched the man's back as he retreated, and Stamford sighed, obviously used to his son's disrespect.

"Sometimes I don't know when to shake the kid's hand and when to sock him one."

"With all due respect, sir- I'm sure I know which he needs."

 

* * *

 

"What have you got for me?"

Lestrade strode into the lab, taking in the scene of chaos before him. Hooper was slopping around in Kaiju guts, ecstatically babbling away while Donovan cast her disdainful looks from behind a computer screen. Surgical tools and biology charts littered the right side of the room, and inflatables hung from the cieling. The left side of the room was covered in a carpet of wires and cords, digiframes and computers at every corner, a chalkboard covered in white scribbles paneling the back wall.

"Well, sir, according to my calculations-,"

"Which are, like, entirely _theoretical_ -," Hooper interrupted, waving her arms vaguely as they dripped blue.

" _My calculations_ say that based on the past attacks and their outcomes, we should-,"

" _Should_. That's entirely postulated, there's not-,"

"I don't remember the commander asking _you_ for your input, Molly! Go back to your-,"

"Oh, no! You-,"

"Quiet!" Lestrade bellowed, and he watched both women silently fume. _Good lord_. "Now, _Donovan_."

" _Based_ on past activity, it won't be long before we experience a multiple occurence." Donovan strode towards one of her computers, tapping furiously at the keys. "When the rift opens, it stays active for a certain amount of time as the Kaiju come through. Now, past attempts at collapsing the rift mean that we can't damage it at any point in time- _but_ , I believe we may be able to access the tunnel during an emergence."

"Okay, _that's_ just ridiculous," Hooper said loudly, swiveling a steel table piled high with tissue. "I mean, the whole concept-,"

"It's not ridiculous, it's based on _evidence,_ and-,"

"Hooper," Lestrade interjected, and Donovan fumed, hitting her computer keys forcefully.

"Look, before, we thought that Kaiju were all different. I mean, their physiology is so vastly different- we get some that are like rhinos, and then crabs- but, really, it's not like that! Their brains- they're the same! I mean, inside, they're exactly alike! _Exactly!_ These things are clones, and I think they act like a hive mind, each responding to a higher entity-,"

"You think they're _clones_ that can communicate _telepathically_?!" Donovan exclaimed, slamming her laptop shut. Before Hooper could speak, Lestrade held his hand up.

"Donovan. I want your material ready to present."

 

* * *

 

 John woke early, quickly dressing and going about his morning workout. He'd only been at the station for a day, but already he felt the tense static of waiting for a battle. Something about the steel and iron surrounding him made it seem like they were living inside a Jaeger.

After Anderson's unpleasant introduction the other night, John was keen to keep away from the angry man. Opting for a late breakfast was the easisest way to do so, and he was somewhat pleased to find Sherlock sitting at one of the near-empty tables.

"Hey," John said lightly, sitting across from the quiet man with his tray. Sherlock didn't speak, his right hand moving deftly across a digiframe that seemed to be spewing random equations every ten seconds. "You- didn't answer yesterday," John said, confused. _Did I do something?_

"You didn't," Sherlock said suddenly, and John tried not to jump.

"How-?"

"Obvious. Your left hand twitched- remnant of piloting on the left side, residual stress reaction. Blinking twice in the span of one second, usually happens when you're upset or unhappy, habit formed from having cried too much too many times. You shifted your weight to your arms, on the table- loss of posture also associated with conflict."

"That- was amazing."

"Really?" Sherlock's voice sounded strange.

"Of course it was, it was incredible. Really- just, incredible."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock replied, his tone light but edged with something sharp. Anger, perhaps- or hurt.

"What do they usually say?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Fuck off."

John laughed, and he started to think that maybe coming back wasn't such a bad idea after all.

_He'd make a great pilot._

 


End file.
